To Die in Favor
by Fadingsilverstar16
Summary: Mike and Chuck, together and alone.


Uh, whoops. I wrote Motorcity. And it's Muck. For a kink meme prompt, no less.

WARNING: graphic description of illness, specifically vomit.

Hope someone out there enjoys!

* * *

_To Die in Favor_

It's late, and they're trapped.

The leather cover on Mutt's steering wheel furrows at ten and two, deep grooves where the fabric molds to the curve of Mike's fingers. His grip's not the tightest he can muster, with all his sweaty palms and stiff wrists, but it sure isn't gentle because what reason is there for that? This is the last he'll ever be able to touch this version of Mutt. Better make it count. Better hold on.

Better make up for the fact that Mike can't actually see that wheel. Or anything else.

Well, that's not completely true. It's dark, but the one thing he can see clearly is Chuck, framed in purple light from Mutt's last working dashboard screen.

"- and I'm not even picking up a signal anymore but that's crazy 'cause they were there _one second ago_ and I just..." Chuck jabs the screen hard with one finger and the distress signal ripples out again, but the red blip that meant another Burner is close by is gone. Mike shifts to look at the floating panel for a moment, then slumps back in his seat without releasing the steering wheel.

"Chuck, buddy, take it easy. We'll get through this. They probably went to get Jacob, I'm sure." And Mike _could_ move his right arm for one second to pat Chuck on the shoulder, then. Rub his back, ruffle his hair, anything like a million other times in a million other (less awful, less tense, less _dark_) situations. It's never been hard, before.

And yet.

Mike swallows against the clench in his throat, allowing himself a frown as the fuzzy ache at his forehead becomes dull little pangs at his temples. His sweat-dampened hands clench and relax on the wheel along with his breathing. In, out. In, out.

He squints, trying to see anything, _anything_ past the mountain of garbage and spare parts he'd accidentally slammed them into, but it's no use. They're buried. This could be their tomb.

Pain taps inside his skull like Chuck's fingers on the dashboard.

"Keep at it," he says, for the both of them. "Everything's just fine."

"You were sure about taking a shortcut through this smelly junkyard." His friend's voice is too shaky, too panicky to give the words any real anger, but Mike gives the darkness a grimace anyway, since it's just the right thing to do. Chuck's right, after all. Always is (except when he isn't, but he's still the one with a better track record).

"I was sure," Mike agrees, "and I'm sure about us getting out of here, too."

Chuck grunts and then lapses into less than coherent muttering. Irritated, he bends closer to the screen as if that'll solve their problem faster, scrunching his face up all stubborn and it's such a _Chuck_ thing to do that Mike just has to grin. It's bad right now, but if Chuck's still Chuck, things can't be all terrible.

That notion gets him through another hour, but not two.

When (_if_) they crawl out of here in one piece, Mike is sure he'll have a nice neat list of things to blame for how he feels now. Nerves, for one thing. Anyone would feel uneasy for being trapped in a cramped, unlit, unmoving space for a while, right? That's a fact, Mike tells himself. It's common sense.

Except Mike's never been in Mutt for this long without the growl of her engine there to urge him on, to keep him going. And, more importantly, he's never been in Mutt without the option to get out, to get away.

Mike digs his nails into the wheel and shudders. Chuck jumps.

"Uh, Mike? You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know, I'm fine. But what about you? Don't tell me you're losing heart, man. Keep going." He doesn't mean to snap, to grit his teeth and square his shoulders and show how he's really feeling, but then Chuck's flinching like he's been burned and God, that guilty sting in his throat is not helping _at all_.

The apology on his lips dies in favor of a gag.

"Mike! Oh, oh God, okay. You, uh - oh God, alright, we just need to - oh _Mike_." Chuck sounds terrified, of course, though it's his jittery legs that are really making things worse. All of a sudden, Mike's sensitive to every little shake, every little motion that's going on in the car and it feels like an earthquake, but it's not. It's just them in Mutt, in their own world, in the dark, sealed in, together and alone and there's just so little _space_–

"Anywhere but right here, Mike, _anywhere but here_ and just hang one for one minute cause I'm gonna fix this. I _will_, Mikey. Just..."

Mike squeezes his eyes shut, not quite tuning his friend out, but not hanging on to every word, either.

Things kind of fade in and out, after that. Most of what's going on is lost to the static crackling in Mike's head, but he picks up all the important bits, at least. When the first wave of nausea crests inside him, Chuck reaches out and _pulls_, bumping their foreheads together on accident before bowing him towards Mutt's back seat. All too fast, Mike's belly lurches, the bile inside burning its way up and out of him. Thick, rancid puke all over the back of the beautiful car he just totaled. Down his chin. In his throat. Through his nose.

Well done, Mike Chilton. Well done.

It comes up a few more times, but he doesn't actually register that he's still being touched until halfway through. Big and warm, Chuck's hands grasp at his shoulders, serving as anchors, tethering him to reality as he wretches and heaves and his body practically jerks itself apart over his stupid fucking stomach. And for the record, if there are tears tracking down his face toward the end, it's all just reflexes, dammit.

Also, if Chuck's choking in disgust and trembling just as much as he is, Mike just... doesn't notice.

The last of it comes out in a few wet coughs.

"Okay, well. That's over. You can just, ah, here..."

Chuck hauls Mike back into the driver's seat, but keeps him turned around so he can look him over.

"Lord, Mikey..." Chuck's no doctor, but he's doing his best, turning Mike's head this way and that with one hand under his chin and the other grasping the side of his neck. And maybe it's a blessing that Mike's so out of it at the moment; he doesn't need to pretend to ignore Chuck's thumb stroking gently under his earlobe. "I don't think you're concussed, but..."

_How would you know_, Mike wants to say, but he's still on dangerous ground and opening his mouth would make him that much closer to vomiting again and that's definitely not happening. Body language's not doing that much for him, either (and he's sure he'd look even more pathetic if he tried), so he sighs, lets things go where Chuck wants them too. For once.

"You coulda just said something, too. I mean, not that we had any options other than y'know, that, but _still_, Mike. You could have..."

Chuck sighs and pulls him closer so the little dashboard screen shines on them both, searching for clarity in Mike's eyes. Mike tries to gulp down the foulness in his throat and fails, but grins wearily nonetheless.

His tongue feels heavy and dry in his mouth. It makes him slur.

"I'm fine, Chuckles," he mumbles. "I'm okay."

Mike swipes the sleeve of his jacket over his face, closes his eyes and makes to lean back into the dark – it'll start the whole damn thing over, but what else is there to do besides suck it up and try to deal? – and that should be the end of the story. Save for the epilogue where they die or escape or something.

But of course not.

"Mike? Hey, wait!" Chuck catches his arm, tugging a little harder than he should. He tries to laugh it off, but the humor doesn't stick. "Don't just fall into the abyss without me, bro. You're not, ah - well, maybe you are okay, but not _that_ okay."

It's such an ungrateful thing to think, but there's something fundamentally wrong with how Chuck embraces him, how those wiry arms lock around his back and hold there, how Mike just kind of slumps into it like he has no other choice. It should be the other way around. Hell, this _has_ happened the other way around before, during the countless scares and thrills and _moments_ they've had. Mike's the protector, around here. He's the leader of the Burners, the one who hugs _them_ when _they_ throw up.

Not this. Never this.

Then again, Mike's usually the first one to jump into something new.

"But y'know, it will be okay, right? You said so yourself. They'll find us, eventually. You were sure, remember?" Chuck says that like he actually believes it. His right hand comes up to smooth Mike's hair, hesitant at first, but finding a rhythm with time. "You were sure."

Mike inhales deeply against his best friend's shoulder and nods.

* * *

Maybe, Mike thinks dimly (half from sickness, half from their air supply slipping away), maybe they'll find them like this. Cold, unmoving, less than alive, but whoever discovers them will know _something_ meaningful happened towards the end.

It's comforting, in a way.

Hugging him closer, Mike gathers up the strength to rub up and down Chuck's back, raking his knuckles over his shirt, over his bony spine.

Beside them, on Mutt's last working dashboard screen, three little red dots appear, pulsing bigger and bright and unnoticed as their chests press together, heartbeats not perfectly in sync, but close enough.

"Soon," Chuck promises, and Mike's stomach settles just a bit more.


End file.
